


Everything counts

by Evil_Keshi



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Making Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Romance, Soldiers, Trench Warfare, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 10:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18636649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Keshi/pseuds/Evil_Keshi
Summary: Women are all the soldiers talk about whenever they're not fighting. Jon listens but doesn't say much, for his eyes never stray far from Tormund's silhouette and if he had to talk, then he'd talk about him. Some secrets aren't made for sharing, though.





	Everything counts

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, I'm back with some more Jonmund! I'm still experiencing with their characters, this time through a World War I AU inspired by _Birdsong_ , the BBC movie starring Richard Madden. Keep in mind that WWI isn't a happy topic and while I didn't dive too deeply into the horrors of trenches, this is still war, with its fair share of depressing thoughts and wounds. If you survived watching GOT though, you should be fine! ;)
> 
> As side notes, there are some lines in French in the story, all translations are in the end notes! Also, the title comes from the Depeche Mode song, although the message of the song has nothing to do with this story.

  


Women. That's all they talk about, whenever they have a minute they don't spend fighting - and you'd never guess but they've got plenty of those. Trenches don't travel overnight and they keep an eye out for movements from the other side but really, these days, they're mostly waiting. Some soldiers say it means the war will end soon.

Jon doesn't understand how they're supposed to win a war when there's no fighting, except when one dumbass gets bored and decides to fire a shot. It seems like they don't really receive orders nor directions anymore, they just... wait, then shoot at the others, move forwards, get shot at and retreat back to their initial position.

Every time they go out then come back, there are fewer men with them than before. The bodies lie somewhere between the two trenches and they'll have to get them back, somehow, but in the meantime they pray in silence for the souls of the friends and brothers in arms they lost. They don't talk about the fallen, not aloud. It's bad luck.

So they speak about women instead, although Jon mostly listens and doesn't share much. The only women he knows are his sisters and his mother, or the closest person to a mum he has, but the boys say things, dirty things, things you don't tell about the women of your family. Even if the topic was more innocent though, Jon wouldn't say a lot.

He doesn't want to talk about his sisters. He doesn't like the reminder that they're somewhere far away from him, especially Arya, who's always been his favourite sister... He's not supposed to have favourite siblings, he knows that, and yet he has. Two, even: Robb and Arya. One's gone to the English countryside and the other is fighting just like him, except he's in a trench up north, in Belgium, while Jon's in the mud of Northern France. He doesn't like to think about Robb more than he does his sisters, to be honest: he hasn't received any word from him in a while and he dreads to think of what it might mean.

Jon tunes back into the conversation. He hasn't missed much: Mance is still talking about tits and gesturing wildly with his hands while the others laugh. It's amazing, really, how much a man has to say about a woman when it's been years since he last was with one. Sometimes Jon wonders whether all the stories he hears from them (which is a lot) are true or just elaborated lies.

If you listen to him, Mance has visited the bed of every woman in London at least twice. Orell calls him a big fat liar and Jon's tempted to think so as well. Orell has a sweetheart waiting for him across the sea and sometimes, when he talks about her, he trails off and gets this faraway look in his eyes, as if he was back home with her. _Inside her_ , Tormund adds with a smirk, making Mance howl with laughter and Orell scoff at the disrespect, although he never stays mad at the redhead for long: in the trenches, life's too short to be mad at your pals.

Jon likes Tormund more than he likes the other two. He's careful about it, doesn't let it show that the affection he has for him runs deeper than mere friendship - it wouldn't be proper. He doesn't want Tormund to get into trouble because of his own ill-placed feelings so he hides them, forces himself not to look at the older, taller man, even when they leave the trench to fight. That's when Jon fears the most for Tormund though, when he least wants to look away from him. He's so big, he doesn't know how long it will take before a bullet or shrapnel finds its way to Tormund's body.

"What about you, boy?" Mance asks all of a sudden.

It takes Jon a few seconds to realise that he's talking to him and he blinks in incomprehension, as he doesn't have the slightest idea of the question he's supposed to answer.

"What?" he asks, his cheeks colouring when Tormund laughs.

"You never say anything," Mance accuses him, "but come on! What do you like in a woman?"

Jon panics a little. He knows what the others expect to hear but these are words he doesn't say, for he's far too respectful to speak of women that way. His father raised him well and Jon has acquired the same principles that have always ruled Ned's life; it doesn't matter that they're at war, he just can't make up some dirty story that would content his friends.

"Their... hair," he ends up saying, looking down at his boots as he blushes a bit more.

"Their hair," Tormund repeats, sounding quite unimpressed, before he lights up, "As in, pull their hair when you're inside them? That I could get behind... Literally."

Raucous laughter echoes around their little part of the trench and Jon should just shut up, he really should, but he has never been good at keeping his mouth shut when he is supposed to.

"No," he says, "I just... I think it's pretty."

"Is that why you take such good care of your curls, pretty boy?"

Jon glares at Tormund when he ruffles his hair with a bark of laughter but that's only on the outside: in the depths of his chest, Jon rejoices and wishes that the redhead would keep doing it, running his fingers through his thick curls that are definitively too long for army regulations, and rest his hand on the nape of his neck, his grip warm and strong on his skin.

He shivers, prays that no one saw it, and Jon scowls in hopes that they'll stop teasing him. They keep chuckling but before long, they're back to discussing breasts and buttocks, although those are not the words they use, and Jon stops listening. He's made himself miserable enough already, imagining Tormund's fingers on him, and when their captain yells at them to get ready for an offensive outside the trench, he almost welcomes the distraction with open arms.

Almost.

  


  


It starts raining in the late afternoon. Jon shivers underneath his shirt, unrolls his left sleeve so it covers his arm as well as the bandage wrapped around the wide gash he received in battle earlier today. The white compress is already stained red and he'll probably need to change it soon but at least it doesn't hurt as much as before, when the impact of a bomb threw him backwards and made him land in a large puddle of mud mixed with blood, while explosive debris rained on his face.

The battlefield is quiet again now, far from the screams of pain and the confusion Jon could hear a few hours ago. His own voice resounded back then, too high as he cried out in fear. For a second or two, before his brain caught up with reality, he'd felt like he had lost an arm and he'd nearly passed out with panic, his heart beating wildly in his chest and his blood rushing to his ears with an awful sound, like a bird flapping its wings against the bars of its cage in a vain attempt to escape.

Jon escaped death but that's only thanks to Tormund. They've always watched over him, Tormund, Orell and Mance. He's the youngest of them all so they decided to keep an eye on him from the start, just to make sure he wouldn't do anything stupid and die on them. Jon supposes that responsibility gives them a purpose, a reason to keep fighting: in the middle of all this despair, it's far too easy to give up, when you look only after yourself... Knowing that the life of someone else depends on you though, that is the best motivation there is to keep going.

Jon glances somewhat bashfully at Tormund, who's sitting a bit further away from him and playing cards with Mance. He looks down before the redhead can catch his gaze and he closes his eyes in shame when he feels his cheeks start to burn.

Tormund saved his life. He looked so scared for Jon when he jumped down the crater created by the explosion, still he ran to the younger soldier, checked that he was still whole, and then he shouldered his body as if he weighed no more than a feather. Jon remembers rising in the air, towering higher than he's ever done as Tormund ran back to the trench. He still feels the warmth of his body underneath him, even now, in the cold rain and the clammy atmosphere that seeps through clothes and undermines morale.

Tormund laid him down for the doctor to work and Jon might have been slightly hysterical back then, his sight turning red with the blood dripping in his eyes from a deep cut across his forehead that he hadn't noticed before. Tormund had turned around to leave him alone with the medical staff but Jon's whimper when a nurse cut his sleeve and moved his arm had made him stop. Jon could have been dreaming but he's pretty sure Tormund had cupped his cheek and stroked his skin with his thumb in a nearly imperceptible caress.

"Hang on, pretty boy," he'd whispered in Jon's ear, before he disappeared in the mist rising from the ground.

Now, Jon seems frozen on his spot, unable to go forward and closer to the dim light of the lamp on Tormund's and Mance's table. He catches Orell's side-glance, as if the man knew about his hesitation to join them - Orell always looks like he knows a great deal about everything and everyone, which used to be unnerving, in the beginning.

He takes a wobbly step forward and Mance looks up, prompting Tormund to turn his head. He smiles a little when he sees Jon - and Jon isn't an exigent man, he's never asked for a lot in his life but right now, he prays that he can always get this reaction whenever the redhead sees him: a soft smile that proves Tormund's affection for him, even though it doesn't convey the same intensity as Jon's own feelings for the man.

He wants to thank Tormund for saving him, get him out of the crater before another bomb could blow him to pieces, but Jon knows that if he does this, he won't be able to control himself. He'll run his mouth and he doesn't want to say words Tormund won't understand nor accept... He refuses to burden his friend with the responsibility of letting him down gently and he doesn't think he could bear to see Tormund avoid him for the rest of their time together in this war, so he has to stay quiet. The secret in his heart is his to carry and his alone.

So when he comes forward, heaviness and heartache in his chest, Jon gives his friends a wan smile and he promises himself that he won't say anything but that he'll cherish the memory of Tormund's hand on his face for the rest of his life. The redhead has a knack for upsetting his plans though, because he curls his hand around Jon's good wrist and tugs, forcing him to plop down next to him on the narrow bench. Their thighs are touching and Jon has to focus really hard so he doesn't lean more on Tormund's side.

"You okay?" the redhead says with his gruff voice.

"Yeah," Jon answers in a breath.

"Does it hurt?" he asks again, nodding towards the younger soldier's sleeve, already damp with blood.

"Not anymore."

"Why are you still brooding, then?" Tormund shots back, sparing him one piercing glance that has Jon taking a sharp breath.

It would be easier if Tormund didn't care about him, he realises. Far more painful, albeit easier to deal with. Yet he does, and Jon would revel in the knowledge of his affection if his heart wasn't so heavy with longing.

He knows exactly what he can't answer Tormund but has no idea what he should actually say, so he blurts out the first thing any other man would think to complain about:

"I've never been with a woman."

Tormund blinks, clearly not expecting that piece of information, while Orell mutters something that sounds like _not surprising_ , which should probably be terribly offensive, and Mance... Mance gets that gleam in his eyes that means he's plotting something - Jon doesn't even want to know his plans.

"Afraid to die before knowing what it's like?" he asks with a smile that's only half-amused, the other half twitching with horror at the mere prospect of dying ignorant. "Wise lad. I'd be terrified too."

"I'm not terrified," Jon protests with a frown, "Curious, is all."

"We'll find you a girl," Mance says, making it sound like a promise, and when Jon raises an eyebrow and looks around the dark, depressing trench, he adds, "When we stop by the next village."

That's not going to happen any time soon, since they're stuck in these damned trenches, but Jon doesn't point it out. By the time they go to the village, maybe his companions will have forgotten about this whole conversation.

  


  


It backfires, badly. A few days later, their unit receives the order to move northwards, to support the troops in Flanders that are fighting nearby Ypres, in Belgium. Jon dreads the upcoming fights but he's got a chance to see Robb or at least find out if anything happened to him, so he braces himself and packs his bag. It's not that big: a clean shirt or two, a spare pair of pants, letters sent to him by Arya, another from Robb, a drawing from Rickon and a crinkled photograph of their family. He carries bits and pieces of his life with him, in hopes that he doesn't forget who he is as he treads through mud and blood.

Leaving the trench behind, if only for a few days, does the men some good; it's almost as if they were going back home already, far from the madness and the slaughter that have marked mankind for the past years. Some even sing, not well for most, as their voices are rough and used to cries of fear and pain rather than melodious tones, but it doesn't matter. They sing without a care in the world because they're out of time now, between their trenches and those of Belgium, and if they can't enjoy their short respite from killing and suffering, what's the fucking point?

Tormund joins in after a while, his voice loud and all the more booming when the troops get started on bawdy songs that make Jon blush to the roots of his hair. He groans when Orell teases him about it, the arse.

They stop in a quiet town for the darkest hours of the night, where most houses are still standing - although some, not entirely. They request the most comfortable habitations for the officers, who tell them not to cause any trouble that night: they know their men and what they'll get up to for their first night without fighting - and last one before another battle begins.

Jon barely has the time to drop his bag in the park where most of them will sleep that night before Mance and Tormund grab him, one arm each, and drag him to a couple of houses that stand away from the town centre. Jon bites his lip when he realises where they're taking him, a place with laughter that rings into the night, entwined with moans and shouts. There's no trace of pain in the cries for once, only pleasure and completion - but not for Jon.

Mance quickly finds a girl for himself; she doesn't speak English, only French, but they don't seem to need words to understand each other. He winks at the two others as she takes his hand and leads him upstairs, disappearing behind a closed door. Jon's half-scared that Tormund will go with another girl and leave him to fend off for himself but to his surprise, the redhead doesn't, despite the women staring or smiling at him, eager to get a night with him. Jon understands them, so, so well.

"Stay here," Tormund tells him with a slap on his shoulder, "I'll find a good one for you. Can't go wrong for your first time, eh?"

Jon's mortified but he can't grab Tormund's hand to hold him back and beg him not to do this, can he? He'd ask questions that Jon wouldn't be able to answer without betraying himself, so he watches helplessly as his friend approaches an older woman, the one who seems to be in charge of this brothel. She reminds him of Catelyn - who would be deeply offended if she knew - because she's got the kind of beauty that doesn't sparkle but is respected by men, and she carries herself with dignity. They discuss quietly and her gaze follows Tormund's finger when he points at him.

She raises a brow, says something that has Tormund shrugging, and she shakes her head, resigned. Jon has no idea what it means but eventually, when his friend comes back, a young woman saunters behind him. She's blonde and pretty, with a delicate mouth that splits in a smile when she takes Jon's hand to follow the same path as Mance did. He turns his head in the stairs, catches Tormund's eyes and only has a second to wonder about the upset glimmer in his gaze before he's inside a small room and the girl leads him to the bed. She lays her hand on his shoulder and straddles him, smiles wider when she trails her fingers along his collar, before she stops on the first button of his shirt.

Jon swallows down a lump of thick apprehension. He catches the girl's hand, pushes it aside and keeps it on the bed, his heart beating too fast.

"N... No," he stammers, and perhaps she doesn't speak English but this she understands, because she nods and stands up, putting some distance between them.

"Tu es nerveux," she answers with what seems to be understanding, although he doesn't grasp a word of what she says. "C'est normal, pour la première fois. N'aie pas peur."

She sounds gentle, as if he was a spooked animal, and she makes him think that perhaps he can try, perhaps he only has to get it over with and then, the desire and feelings he has for men, for Tormund, will disappear. Jon nods but his heart is still in his throat and when she undoes the buttons of her dress, reveals herself and her round breasts, he knows he won't make it. He tries to resist the urge to bolt, lets her take his hand and kiss his palm, but then she leads his fingers to her nipple and it's... it's too much. The next second, he recoils and snatches his hand away, as if burned.

"I can't," he rasps out, holding his knees to his chest, feeling his shoulders shake, and that's when he realises that he's crying. "I'm sorry, I can't. I can't, I can't..."

"Chut," she says without anger, without disgust. "C'est pas grave."

She caresses his curls and it's tender, void of any sexual intention. It feels like a mother comforting her son and he's been so deprived of affection that he leans into the touch with a loud sob.

"It is alright," the girl says then, with what little English she knows. "You are soldier. You have saw things. Je comprends."

She caresses his hair one more time, smiles at him sadly, then she walks out of the room in silence, leaving the door open behind herself. Jon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, shuddering on the exhale. Orell will laugh at him when he hears about what happened. Or maybe he won't. Jon only has to look like he's had the time of his life, run to his companions and describe his night with excitation, like any other soldier would do. Maybe it will trick them into thinking he slept with the girl and enjoyed it.

His heart stops when he opens his eyes again. Tormund has entered the room and closed the door, eyeing him without saying a word - but he doesn't need to ask how the experience was for Jon. He only has to look around the room, at the bed still made and Jon still dressed, to understand what happened: nothing at all. Jon jumps out of the bed and rubs at his eyes in haste.

"You're not with one of these women?" he asks before the redhead can laugh at him.

The answer's obvious, so Tormund shrugs and Jon looks down. He wants to be mad at Tormund for making him feel this way, making him fail where the other men succeed but he knows, he knows it's his fault and no one else's. The redhead hasn't asked for it.

"Sorry," Tormund says at last, "I should have known."

"Known what?" Jon asks, bitter and sad - so much more than he wants to feel.

"That it was useless."

"What is that supposed to mean, exactly?" he snaps.

Tormund doesn't answer and Jon suddenly can't breathe. He knows, doesn't he? He's seen the way Jon looks at him, realised that it wasn't mere friendship he wanted, and now...

"Was it a test?" he asks on a low tone, his voice brittle.

"What was?" Tormund replies, genuine confusion in his eyes, and Jon wants to believe in it, in him, in the friend he made along these years of war.

"The girl," Jon explains, impatient for the answer now, willing to know the full extent of the pain right this instant so he can start the slow healing of his heart the next second, "Was she a test? To know if I'm..."

He wants to say many things. _Disgusting_. _A man_. A _real_ one. _I'm in love with you_. He doesn't say any of them though, because Tormund suddenly closes the distance between them and backs him up against the wall, his hands tight onto the fabric of his shirt.

"She was no test," he croaks, "but you said you've never been with a girl. I thought you'd want her."

"No," Jon admits in a whisper, "I don't want her. Nor any other girl."

"Yeah, that's what the woman said, downstairs. Said she perfectly knew what you wanted. _Who_ you wanted."

"Whom," Jon points out stupidly.

"Shut up, pretty boy."

He doesn't have any choice but to comply as Tormund crashes their lips together, cutting short all the protests Jon could have answered him with - not that he even thinks about objecting right there and then, because this? This is all he's ever wanted: Tormund's mouth, hungry and adventurous, his lips pressing down on his with urgency. Jon returns the kiss almost desperately, clutching to his friend's shoulders. He's shorter than Tormund and it's maddening, because he wants to lose himself in his embrace and he can't, pushed against the wall as he is, held in place by Tormund's strong hands. He doesn't want him to let go, though: he feels like he's being kissed by fire, his lips tingling and swelling underneath Tormund's mouth. It feels good, _right_ even, yet he's not sure to understand what it means, why he's held so close by a man so unattainable, and he suddenly stiffens in Tormund's arms. It's not a trick, is it?

"What's wrong?" the redhead asks, barely an inch away from his mouth.

Jon shakes his head, can't bring himself to form the question, too scared of the answer. Tormund likes women, everybody knows that, so he doesn't really want Jon: he's just trying to make him feel better.

"You don't have to do this," he eventually whispers. "I'm..."

"Do you really think I'd do this if I didn't want to?" Tormund interrupts him, as if he's read his mind.

Jon shakes his head. No, of course not. No one forces him to do anything he doesn't want to do, he's just stubborn like that.

"Then why?" he says, and now he _needs_ the answer, he needs to know that he's not the only one who feels like this.

"You know why," Tormund only replies, quiet and all the more sincere. "Just because you haven't seen me looking doesn't mean I wasn't watching you."

"You like women," Jon says, too surprised to examine the redhead's words for now, "You... you've known many. I'm not a woman."

"Aye, that you aren't," Tormund answers with amusement. "Doesn't mean I don't want you, though. I haven't just been with women. I don't advertise it, that's true, but I've known men too."

The revelation is world-shattering and Jon loses his breath for a moment, before he stares at Tormund in a new light. Impatient but calm, his blue eyes await some sort of confirmation from Jon that he can't give aloud, not when there's a myriad of thoughts he wants to give voice to. Instead, he lifts his hands and does his best to curl them behind Tormund's neck.

"This night was supposed to be my first time," he reminds the redhead, who nods and shivers as Jon trails light kisses along his throat.

"Aye," he says, "It can still be... but it doesn't have to."

"Mance was right though," Jon whispers, "I don't want to die without knowing what it's like to be with you."

So Tormund shows him, pushes Jon until he sprawls onto the sheets of the bed, his heart beating fast as the redhead watches him. It's not shame, not nervousness that has his heart full and wild, only desire and excitement, and long shivers rock his whole body when Tormund touches him, pulls on his shirt that was tucked into his trousers and gets him naked. It's unhurried, frustrating and teasing, and Tormund smirks when Jon squirms - until he surges up to kiss and nibble on his lips, his hands fumbling to unbutton the shirt that has become highly unnecessary.

Tormund's body is thick and solid, different from Jon's, more pliant, softer. He's still not far from a boy, although what little baby fat remaining around his cheeks has since long melted away with the rough treatment war subjected him to. The redhead lies perfectly still while Jon explores the curves and angles of his body, traces the muscles and the ribs, splays his hand across his skin.

He's inexperienced but eager to learn and to please, trailing his mouth down Tormund's body without hesitation, surprisingly bold now that he's certain that he can do this, that Tormund won't push him away. And he doesn't, just tugs him closer, holds onto him, and Jon's heart threatens to burst. Their bodies are warm as they tangle their legs, their voices low and hoarse as they move in rhythm, slow at first, until Jon has to bite Tormund's shoulder to keep from crying out too loudly. Tormund is a fierce and caring lover who cups the back of Jon's head protectively as they make the bed creak, and his fingers get lost in his thick curls until Jon's laughter abruptly turns into a long whimper.

They lie together afterwards, facing each other, and Jon traces lazy patterns onto Tormund's chest. He doesn't want to leave this bed, ever, and based on the tension in Tormund's arms as they keep Jon in place against him, he doesn't look forward to the next morning either. There is a war to go back to and they will because they're soldiers and that's what they do - but they don't have to think about it for now.

So they stay there and relish each other's quiet presence. There are many words Jon wants to tell Tormund but he doesn't dare to, because they might die the next day and then, he doesn't want these words to have been told as if they were goodbyes. He pictures the end of the war in his mind, the sun that comes up to shine on the desolation of the trenches like hope, Tormund and he staring at each other in disbelief because that's it, it's over, and they made it through. That's the moment he will choose to tell Tormund how much he means to him and it will sound like a fresh start, a new beginning for them and the world. He only hopes Tormund feels the same about him and that he hasn't spent the night with him out of pure sexual attraction.

"You're thinking too loud," Tormund huffs in his ear.

"One of us has to," Jon shots back with a smirk, feeling ridiculously happy in the redhead's arms and dead set on enjoying this feeling for as long as he possibly can, pushing away the doubts that morning could bring.

"Go to sleep, Jon."

There it is, he realises in shock while Tormund closes his eyes, the answer he was looking for. It's the first time he calls him Jon instead of _pretty boy_ or another nickname, and it sounds so intimate that he has no doubt left. He should go to sleep, he knows, but he wants to look at Tormund just for a little while longer, keep in his memory the exact moment it all made sense. The upcoming days won't be easy but he'll have _this_ to think about and right now, it is more than enough. It's everything.

  


**Author's Note:**

> French translations:
> 
> (1) You are nervous. It's normal for a first time. Don't be afraid.
> 
> (2) Hush, it's alright.
> 
> (3) I understand.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading until the end! I would love to know what you thought about this story so feel free to share your opinion :)


End file.
